


Hallowed

by eldritcher



Series: Red Falls The Dew On These Silver Leaves [5]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-04-01 06:10:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4008823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eldritcher/pseuds/eldritcher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Orodeth reigns in Nargothrond. Túrin comes there after killing Beleg. Celebrimbor must choose between loyalty to his friends and self-preservation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hallowed

pov: Turin

Cast:  
Orodeth - nephew of Finrod.  
Beleg - commander of Doriath.  
Finduilas - daughter of Orodeth.  
Gwindor - noble lord of Nargothrond, captured by Morgoth during Nirnaeth Arnoediad, later escapes and returns to Nargothrond with Túrin.  
Túrin - son of Húrin and Morwen - he assumes the name Agarwaen.  
Inglor - son of Orodeth.   
Telpë - Telperinquar, Celebrimbor.

* * *

Hallowed

 

“Our hearts rejoice, Gwindor!” Orodeth embraced the escaped thrall from Angband who had once been a noble lord of Nargothrond. “May your life be free of tribulations from this day!”

“I bring with me a young friend, Lord King. Without his strength, I would not have reached these lands I love.” 

“Who may that be?” Orodeth enquired, casting his blue eyes to my form.

I stepped forward and stood beside Gwindor. Pity flashed across Orodeth’s features and I knew well the reason. The contrast between Gwindor’s form and mine would have caused a frisson of discomfort in the coldest heart.

He was a hunchback. I was approaching the fullness of my manhood, and had inherited my mother’s features in full. Thus I was tall, dark-haired and pale-skinned, with grey eyes, and extremely handsome. My speech and bearing were that of the ancient kingdom of Doriath and even among the Elves I had been often taken for one from the great houses of the Noldor; and therefore many had called me Adanedhel, the Elf-Man.

With measured grace, I bowed to the King saying, “Agarwaen, son of Umarth, professes fealty to the lord of Nargothrond.”

“Welcome to my realm, Agarwaen,” Orodeth said warmly, ignoring the whispers from the courtiers upon hearing my name. “We have need of strength in Nargothrond. Glad I am to have you amongst us.”

I bowed once again and withdrew. Gwindor had assumed his seat amongst the nobles. I remained standing, awaiting his attention, though it went against the grain of my being to be dependent on one so misshapen and weak. But it had to be done, until I had greater allies in this kingdom. Allies, I would soon have. 

I measured the personages in the court. There was a handsome man seated to the left of the King who bore a striking resemblance to Orodeth. That must be the Crown Prince, Inglor. Gwindor had spoken favourably of him remarking that Inglor had inherited more from Finrod Felagund than from Orodeth. As Finrod had been widely regarded as the paragon of all things lovable, I supposed that Inglor must be one of those men by whom it was impossible not to be charmed. Like to him in temperament and bearing was his sister, Finduilas, who sat to the King’s right. Gwindor had spoken of her with deep reverence and I had instantly discerned the nature of his regard for her. Her, I would have to treat carefully – unless I had attained sufficient leverage to be safe from Gwindor’s wrath. 

My eyes moved over the other courtiers, carefully assessing each person. Who would be won over most easily?

“Greetings!” Orodeth called out coldly, looking up from his consultations with his nobles at the sound of the council chamber door opening and closing. “As punctual as ever, I am glad to see.”

I turned to watch the newcomer, curious to see the unfortunate soul who had earned the King’s ill graces. To my dismay, the pangs of fire that had never seared my heart in all the time I had spent with Beleg and a thousand others now flamed high and fiery, scorching a trail in its wake that I feared would be never healed. The man was nobility, well evinced by the high forehead and the graceful bearing as well as by the favourable glances cast his way by the ladies of the court. 

“I do apologise,” the handsome noble said absently. Finduilas laughed affectionately at this and leant over to place her fingers on her furious father’s wrist. “I did not wish to interrupt, my lord. But I need more time if I am to complete the new gate.”

“What is your latest excuse?” Orodeth demanded. “It has been nearly two years.”

“There is no excuse,” was the calm reply. “I shall not compromise on quality. You refuse to compromise on the number of labourers.” 

“Soldiers are not forge labourers,” Orodeth remarked. 

I watched in fascination as a faint flush crept up the three-quarters profile of the high cheekbone of the younger noble. Orodeth’s words had struck an undefended corner of his vassal’s heart. I knew that, for I had lived through the pain of a thousand veiled and not-so-veiled barbs cast my way by friends, allies, strangers and enemies. 

“Father,” Inglor intoned gently. Orodeth shrugged and returned to his consultations, dismissing his mason, for so I assumed the other to be.

 

Later that night, I was in Gwindor’s chambers. I needed allies, and Gwindor must be counted amongst them. The other nobles pitied him and through this pity, I could win their allegiance if Gwindor stood by me. 

And Gwindor would stand by me. I knew what he desired the most. 

“Lady Finduilas is a very beautiful woman.” 

I opened conversation after I had plied him with a goblet of wine. He was not intoxicated enough to plead ignorance the next morning, yet he was relaxed enough to be uninhibited. Perfect. 

“But I who loved her am no longer worthy to cast my eyes upon her beauty,” he murmured harshly, reaching out for the bottle of wine. 

I arrested the move by placing the palm of my right hand over his. Then I asked, “Great store does your kind set upon physical beauty, Gwindor.”

He shrugged and made to pull his hand away. But I maintained a gentle grip and continued, “Would you have cast her out of your affections if your places had been reversed?”

“I would have killed her to spare her the life I am condemned to!” he declared fervently, his spirit roused by my words.

“Oh, how I envy the princess!” I exclaimed, with the right amount of wistfulness and pain marring my voice. “If I had ever been held in such regard by another, I would have loved him all the more for enduring what he did.”

His eyes turned darker and I could see his heart reflected in them. And in his heart there was yearning and despair. 

“There are many who love you and there will be many more, young lord. You are fast approaching your prime. The princess remarked upon your handsomeness and bearing this day in court.”

“Beleg used to tell me that I resembled a savage at my best and a werewolf at my worst.”

I sighed and closed my eyes, seeking to impress upon Gwindor that I was lost in miserable thoughts involving Beleg. I withdrew my right hand slowly, and then my heart leapt in victory as his hands came to firmly close down upon my fingers.

“I am sorry,” I said quietly. “But this overwhelms me, if I may frankly speak. Nargothrond does not have those of my kind. My heart is lonely and grieving. I have no purpose to this life.”

“Don’t speak so!” he commanded, and in the harsh crack of his voice I fancied that I could hear the echo of the courageous soldier he had once been. “You are young, handsome, mighty of sword and word. Nargothrond needs such men. I shall have you drafted into the ranks of the warriors. Prove yourself to the King and gain his respect. You have a full life ahead of you and cannot pine away for the dead.”

He was a compassionate, good-hearted man, Gwindor of Nargothrond. In kinder circumstances, if I had been a better man, and if the Gods had spared me, I might have been struggling with my conscience before choosing this cruel ploy to win my ends. 

“I--” I shook my head and met his gaze hesitantly. “I can never lift my sword arm knowing that I killed my dearest comrade with it.”

He sighed and rose from his chair. His hunched, twisted form ambled across the carpet. I sighed and leant into his touch when his hand came to caress the nape of my neck.

“You are grieving and I shall not press my advances upon you now,” he breathed unsteadily. “We shall speak of this later. For now, be the warrior that you are, and let your grief be drowned in bloodlust.”

It was with the triumphant flush of victory that I left his chambers later. He had comforted me with words of wisdom and touches of consolation. 

 

Gwindor coaxed me into accepting Beleg’s sword, for I had none of my own. 

“It is his legacy. He would have wanted you to wield the blade. I shall have it set in a new hilt by the smiths of Nargothrond. The sword shall be reforged and the warrior in you reborn,” Gwindor declared.

Thus I found myself waiting with Gwindor outside the study of the master-smith of Nargothrond. We were called in and I was facing the handsome mason who had absently walked into the court that day.

“This is Agarwaen, my protégé,” Gwindor introduced me. A crisp nod and a cool appraisal by black eyes was the only acknowledgement. I shifted my weight from one foot to another, feeling unsettled and light-headed all of a sudden. 

“Agarwaen, this is Prince Celebrimbor, kinsman to the King and the most talented smith this side of the sea.”

Celebrimbor! The name brought to me memories of lore taught behind the girdle. Of Princes fey and reckless who had come to conquer Beleriand and of their kin. Celebrimbor was the son of Curufin who had once ruled the bountiful lands of Himlad. Curufin was the son of Fëanor. That explained the inherent nobility and the austere grace of this man.

“Merely the name shall suffice,” Celebrimbor said briskly. “What is that I can do for you, Gwindor? Your protégé is not interested in aiding the construction of the gate, I daresay?”

“He is not a smith,” Gwindor replied. “The purpose of our errand is to reforge his sword. He is a warrior and should return to his vocation.”

“Would that all of us were so devoted to our craft!” Celebrimbor frowned disapprovingly at a parchment bearing numbers. “Well, let me see the blade then. I will have someone attend to it when they can be spared.”

“The King,” Gwindor began.

Celebrimbor’s dark eyes flashed angrily and Gwindor let his sentence remain unfinished. I wondered why Celebrimbor was working for the King when his kinsmen were all in the west, in Ossiriand. Perhaps a political prisoner, I mused.

“Let me see the sword,” Celebrimbor said finally. “I have no time to spare. But I will see what can be done. We cannot go against the King’s whim, can we?”

Gwindor nodded to me and I handed over the scabbard to Celebrimbor. He swiftly drew out the blade by the hilt and then frowned. It was dull, black and blunt-edged. 

“Many in my family can read minds,” he spoke softly. “But I can read the heart of metals. This speaks of deceit and malice.” His fingers lingered over the blade, without ever touching it. He looked up at me and I met his gaze coolly. One did not survive my lot as long as I had without being an exceptional actor at need.

“I shall not accept this assignment,” he said simply, before handing back the sword to me. “You may tell the King so.”

“Prince,” Gwindor began in earnest, “the sword is remarkable, you must agree. It merits your skill.”

“It may.” Celebrimbor’s eyes turned distant. “But I shall not touch it, Gwindor.”

“The King shall not be pleased,” Gwindor muttered.

“The King is rarely pleased by anything I do,” Celebrimbor quipped wryly before returning to his numbers and calculations.

 

Another smith reforged the sword for me and I was sent to the ranks of the warriors. In the time that followed I grew high in favour with Orodreth because of my exploits as a warrior, and well-nigh all hearts were turned to me in Nargothrond. Inglor respected me, Finduilas accepted my knightly attentions and the King did not oppose it. Gwindor remained my unwitting ally as I seduced, coaxed and threatened my way through all of Nargothrond. 

Only one remained inured to my charm. Celebrimbor Curufinwion was as stubborn as the steel he forged and this infuriated me to no extent. 

“He is involved in a secret dalliance with the princess,” Gwindor spat one day as we discussed matters over wine and repast. 

“Celebrimbor?” I was surprised. “What can the princess see in a smith?”

“He is of high blood.”

Gwindor shrugged and came to absently kiss my lips. Our interactions had grown more intimate with each passing day. He believed that I was slowly recovering from my grief over the fall of Beleg and had begun pressing his attentions upon me. I let him lead, acting the part of the vulnerable heart who was grieving a dead love and was deeply in need of assurance. I gave it approximately three months before he endeavoured to bed me. I had prepared myself for the eventuality. For all his kind heart, his physical limitations would render certain activities difficult. 

“But isn’t his house dispossessed?” I asked softly, nuzzling into his touch as willing as any concubine. 

Gwindor withdrew and said thoughtfully, “He is not without personal charm. His brilliance cannot be overlooked. The stigma associated with his house merely draws people to them.”

“If the King knows, he shall not be pleased,” I remarked, already seeing where my leverage lay.

“Yes,” Gildor admitted. “The King is fiercely protective of his daughter and would not allow such an alliance.”

 

A strange instinct bade me to not act upon the hold I had over Celebrimbor and Finduilas. I continued my exploits on the warfront until a day came when my blade was broken again. I was the King’s right hand then and my whim to have my sword reforged by Celebrimbor was issued to the smith as an order by Orodeth himself.

As I lay recuperating – I had not been injured at all, but Finduilas had insisted that I remain confined to my bed for a week - Celebrimbor barged into my chambers without knocking or making his presence known through polite means. 

“I shall not touch that sword of yours!” he exclaimed. “I have told you that. Why have you told the King that you need me to reforge it?”

“You are uneasy in my presence,” I remarked as he paced the length of the chamber. 

“Agarwaen – bloodstained – you call yourself that,” he ranted. “I see the heart of your sword and it is blacker than the blade of an orc! Why would I be easy in your presence?”

“If I told you what I was called, then would you reforge the sword for me?” asked I suavely, taking in the fine profile of his features as he strode back and forth before the dying hearth fire.

“I shall not touch this sword,” he said simply, not shying away from meeting the intense gaze of my eyes, which was no mean feat since the full force of my gaze had quelled even Thingol. “I have my reasons. There are many smiths who would be honoured to undertake this task for you. Pray, approach them.”

“I want you to reforge it, spawn of traitors.” 

I resorted to crude words. Perhaps that would provoke his temper and he would do something foolish. That would bring down the King’s ire upon him finally and he would have to resort to compliance with my whims if he had to prevail upon me to not report his foolish course of action. I left the luxurious bed and walked over to him, taunting softly, “Afraid of the mad young man, are you?”

My hand came to grip his forearm and I watched in satisfaction as his eyes flared wide in surprise.

“Unhand me, never ask me to forge your sword, and I will let this pass, murderer,” he said crisply, betraying no fear in the face of my madness.

“What did you call me?” I hissed, slamming him back against the fireplace. The fire had died to embers. I thanked my wisdom in throwing the grate across the hearth. As it was, the still heated metal he was forced against made him flinch in pain. His muscles corded under my grip as I moved my hand roughly up his arm. 

“We are alone. I fear nothing. So it is in your best interests to reforge my sword.” I punctuated each word by digging my fingers deeper and deeper into his arm. 

He narrowed my eyes and said coldly, “You will find that I am neither Orodeth nor Gwindor. No method of persuasion will succeed in having that sword reforged by me.”

“Nothing shall make us do this, nothing shall make us do that,” I whispered heatedly as I aligned his body to mine and used the advantage of my position to slam him back against the grate once again. To my vague horror, I could feel my arousal. Well, I decided recklessly, let him think that I was a masochist atop all the rest of my sterling vices. “Your family is very good at making those claims though they fail at adhering to them.”

“Let me restate then,” he said smoothly, betraying no tension despite the obvious pressure of my manhood against his pelvis. “If you give me that sword and charge me with reforging it, utilising the admittedly effective means of leverage and persuasion you have at your disposal, then you may find that the blade is damaged beyond repair – accidentally, of course – by the time I am done with it.”

“I know that you have been bedding Finduilas.” I flung my challenge. “Think you that Orodeth will forgive a Fëanorion who had the gall to bed his daughter?”

“If he can forgive your unsubtle attempts at seduction of all and sundry, including the princess, then he must be truly magnanimous,” he replied crisply. “Everyone in Nargothrond knows that you have been forcing her to accept your advances.”

“She is wanton,” I scoffed and his eyes darkened. But his restraint did not snap. He was wiser than he seemed on the surface, wiser than the fools of Nargothrond who hearkened to me and my traitorous heart warmed involuntarily to see the calm defiance in his dark eyes. “It is not my fault that she is enamoured easily by the perfect male form. Gwindor fails to see that and blames himself for her infatuation with me, the poor hunchback.”

“Gwindor has a heart of gold,” he said defensively. “If not for his succour, you would have been rotting in some forsaken corner of Beleriand!”

I stepped back, though my fingers remained upon his arm. “Beleriand does not exist anymore; a direct consequence of the foolish union of your late High-King and his catamite of a cousin.” 

“Insulting me does not help your cause,” he said coolly, though the flexing of a vein in his temples told me that I was very near achieving my end.

“Nor does it hinder my cause,” I parried. “I shall settle for lesser smiths then, or perhaps I shall not.”

“As pleasing as speculation is, I am afraid that some of us have to earn our keep. This interesting conversation shall have to wait.”

“Not easily intimidated, are you?” I drawled as he stepped past me after shoving me away with the exact amount of force required to do so. 

“It would not do.” He smiled and I felt the utterly unreasonable urge to kiss the smile off his lips. “My legacy, you will realise, permit little allowance for fear.”

“Perhaps you and I are not unlike.” 

It was one of those rare statements made by impulse. 

I wanted him. I would seduce him. I wanted him as I had wanted nobody else. I turned my voice an octave lower, coloured by the right amount of invitation and asked a trivial question. He spared me an amused glance before striding away. 

 

Three weeks of determined seduction later, I was left to wonder why I had failed for the first time in my life. Even agents of the Enemy I had won over with less effort. Sindarin men and women of Doriath, including Saeros the wise, fallen to my charms. It had not been any different with Edain high-born or outlawed. It was the same in Nargothrond. 

Why had it failed with Celebrimbor? I did not have the patience to persevere in the pursuit of things that would not aid my purposes. Gaining entry to Celebrimbor’s bed would not serve me. I had all that I needed; the King’s goodwill, the swords of my companions and the support of everyone who mattered. 

But a part of me hated that Celebrimbor would score victory over me through his calm. I hurried to the King and discreetly informed him of the dalliance Celebrimbor had with the princess. 

Celebrimbor was summoned. I waited for the storm to abate before casting my next game. 

“It seems that you are keen to prove yourself your father’s son,” Orodeth began softly. “What is this that Agarwaen tells me about your refusal to reforge his sword?”

“The sword has tasted blood, my lord. Kin blood. You know that I touch no bloodstained sword.”

The King sneered and asked softly, “Have you given a thought to the fact that your father and his brothers are all murderers of the lowest rank?”

“I have. That is why I abide by your command instead of joining them,” Celebrimbor said curtly. “Does my lord doubt my fealty?”

“I have reasons to!” Orodeth exclaimed wrathfully. “You have seduced and bedded my daughter. Do you deny that?” 

“What else would you expect from one whose father tried to force intimacy upon Lùthien?” I added blithely.

“Father!” It was Inglor, his eyes taking in the scene concernedly as he entered the chamber. “What is this?”  
.   
“He has been bedding your sister!” Orodeth said furiously. 

Inglor’s blue eyes flicked from his father’s angry form to my smug smile and then to Celebrimbor’s unmoved features. Then he stepped between his father and the smith, and spoke softly.

“My sister chose him, Father.”

“Summon her to my chambers and I shall know the truth of it.” Orodeth glared at Celebrimbor before walking away. Inglor hurried away with a fearful expression on her features. 

That left me with my prey yet again.

He turned to face me and said plainly, “I refuse to believe that you know the meaning of the word ‘chivalry’. How dare you drag the princess into your sordid web?”

“I would not have,” I said pertly. “If only you had agreed to reforge my sword, Prince, we might have been bosom friends now.”

“I find the idea appalling,” he retorted before walking away. 

But I followed him to his study, the same study where he had so dismissively refused to reforge my sword. As we reached the door, he turned back and crossed his arms across his chest, looking the very picture of offended hauteur. I had never cared for arrogant princes. In fact, I loathed them with dedication. But Celebrimbor managed to equally look the part of the prince, the soldier and the common man, though clad in a simple tunic, apron and breeches, attire more suited to labourers than to high-born. 

“If you insist upon shoving me against the nearest vertical surface at the end of our encounters,” his amused gaze travelled over the length of me, correctly assessing my plan to slam him against the door, “then I must ask you to redirect your attentions to the fools of Nargothrond. I am a busy man.”

“So am I.”

“Your time is occupied by plotting and setting the said plots into action.” 

He sniffed and inspected his nails in an offended manner that gave him an uncanny resemblance to a cat licking away mud from its claws. I had the distinct fiery rush through my blood yet again. I closed the distance between us and took his hand, tracing the long vein that ran down his wrist. 

“I prefer women, my lord,” he informed me with a laugh. “It is flattering. But I would rather not accept this honour.”

“Whatever it is that a woman can give, I can give more,” I promised.

“Children?” 

I raised my eyebrows. It was crude of him, unexpectedly crude of him. Perhaps my earlier insinuations about his family had struck him deeper than he had let on. It was time to change tactics. 

My lazy finger that had been tracing his vein pressed down abruptly and he hissed in pain. Obligingly, I released the pressure. Moistening my lips, I kissed the lobe of his right ear before breathing, “Have a care, Prince. You know not what I am. Have a care.”

His eyes widened at the sensation of my lips upon his ear and he pushed me away with a dark glare. I smirked and walked away, it may not have been a victory but it certainly was no defeat and with Celebrimbor that was the most which could be hoped for. 

I desired to have him and have him I would. Meanwhile, Nargothrond was mine.

* * *

After a long day in the barracks, I had come to the communal baths to soak myself clean. Perhaps there would be some solicitous Elf who could be prevailed upon to wash me and to indulge in the activity of cock sucking. 

To my dismay, I saw that most of the loiterers in the baths were the nobles. I had bedded a good many of them and had no wish to put myself in their untalented hands or mouths again. Admiring glances came my way as I stripped and entered the lukewarm water. Lukewarm water reminded me of the Elves and of their many faults. They were neither passionate nor cold-blooded, instead preferring to keep to the middle path. 

“I shall prevail upon her to accept this,” Inglor was saying wearily as he entered the baths with Celebrimbor. “We have no other choice.”

“We have time,” Celebrimbor said, looking ill at ease. “She has not started showing yet.”

“But the concoction must be taken before the third lapse in cycle,” Inglor said, frustrated. “Telpë, you must convince her. She wants it.”

Celebrimbor’s features turned immeasurably sad - and I had to will myself to not go to him, though for what purpose I did not know - then he murmured, “Who are we to deny the right of a woman to child, cousin?”

“Think you that it sits easy with me-” Inglor broke off when he saw me close. He smiled politely and made to enter the baths.

A young soldier who had fought under me in a recent skirmish caught my eye meaningfully. I nodded and my loins were soon subjected to the warm ministrations of the soldier’s tongue. I sighed and leant back, watching with hooded eyes as Celebrimbor disrobed absently. I reflected that I had never seen him clad in robes before. He preferred the freedom afforded by tunic and breeches for his work. While I appreciated the sight of his calves confined in knee length boots, I had to equally appreciate the silk encased form that he was now. And yet more did I appreciate the sight he made when out of the robes. He was a very handsome man. 

Inglor had already entered the water and was speaking to a noble. Celebrimbor entered the water and began looking around. Our eyes met for a fraction of an instant and he smiled wryly when he realised the occupation of the Elf between my legs. The baths at Nargothrond were renowned for such activities and I did almost always find a willing mouth eager to serve. 

“Try it, it shall help relax,” I advised him.

He rolled his eyes and treaded over to where Inglor was being massaged by a younger noble. The easy familiarity with which Inglor pulled Celebrimbor to him and began undoing the braids the smith wore sat ill with me. They had known each other intimately, perhaps they still did. But what of Finduilas?

A particularly inventive twist of the tongue upon my loins followed by vigorous suction derailed my thoughts and I let myself fall into orgasm with a sigh. Well, there were some things that we could never ask of women in good conscience. Perhaps the relationship between Celebrimbor and Inglor had been born of such needs. 

I hated Inglor. 

 

That night, as I was about to leave Gwindor’s chambers after a lopsided, frustratingly poor coupling, he mentioned that he had spent the afternoon with Finduilas, reading aloud to her. 

“It must have been vexing,” I sympathised.

He shrugged and stole a kiss from me before saying, “She was distracted. She looked very beautiful today. Glowing.” I wished that he would spare me the rapturous narration of her otherworldly beauty. “Yet I have never seen her so troubled. She asked me if I had ever wanted children.”

Revelation seized me as the conversation I had overheard came back vividly to my mind. 

"I shall prevail upon her to accept this. We have no other choice.”

“We have time. She has not started showing yet.”

“But the concoction must be taken before the third lapse in cycle. Telpe, you must convince her. She wants it.”

“Who are we to deny the right of a woman to child, cousin?”

“Think you that it sits easy with me-” 

The fool had made her pregnant. Orodeth would start a kinslaying if he heard of this. Then I smiled. It was leverage. Celebrimbor would supplicate and beg me to allow him reforge the sword. I nearly regretted that I would win soon. He had been a formidable adversary thus far. It was his folly though. He should have been more careful when sowing his seed.

 

“My lord Celebrimbor!” 

I hailed him the next day as he wandered near a stone bridge, occasionally bending, squatting, nodding to himself, and jotting down measurements. He was a fetching sight with a quill tucked above his ear and his dark hair flying askew out of the poorly done braids. Perhaps it was because that all Elves were neat and dignified in bearing that his appearance became attractive to me. He must have rushed here when dawn broke. I had heard tales of him getting inspired at night and then impatiently pacing near the guardsmen’s quarters till daybreak so that he could rush out to take measurements and verify what he had.

He was presently squatting at the very edge of the bridge, peering down into the crevasse below, his hands braced on the loose stones that formed boundary. I was in the habit of taking risks. But the sight of him in peril did me no good. I strode over and hauled him away by his legs, and an indignant squawk that escaped him. With his face upturned and his legs in the air, the feathered quill sprouting through his hair and a scroll in one hand, and the other hand clawing through the rubble for purchase, he made a ludicrous sight and I was intensely aroused. 

I let go of his legs and he leapt up defying all laws of probability, refusing to go down in a heap of limbs. Celebrimbor was an unpredictable man. 

“What do you think you are doing?” he demanded furiously, his dark eyes flashing vengeance and one of his flushed cheeks bearing a streak of ink. 

“Reforge my sword, my good Prince, and you shall be rid of my company,” I offered graciously. 

He snorted and bent to pick up a little inkpot he had placed on the largest stone in the rubble, all the while muttering under his breath. His fingers came up to tug the quill away from his hair, but it had become enmeshed in his dark locks.

“Allow me.” 

I leant in to gently extricate the quill from the tangle, relishing the feel of his hair through my fingers. Close to, his hair was not the raven black I had earlier assumed it to be. Instead it was a profusion of black intertwined with the odd patch of mahogany brown. Strange, and yet not strange, for the man himself was a mix of wisdom and innocence. 

“Done?” he demanded querulously. “What did you want with me?”

“I know that Finduilas is pregnant,” I said bluntly. His features betrayed alarm before he hastily composed himself into blankness and stared me down.

“Are you aware of the punishment in Nargothrond for causing the pregnancy of an unwed noblewoman?” I enquired when he had chosen to take up silence. 

“Yes,” he said curtly. 

“What is between Finduilas and you is no concern of mine,” I said briskly. His eyes widened in disbelief. I continued, “She will not give up the child, I understand. Once she starts showing, her father will want to know. There is imprisonment, humiliation and exile. All this you knew and risked.”

“But let us consider something else. It would take not more than the merest flick of my wrist to slip poison into the good princess’s goblet at dinner,” I murmured. “No mother, no child. Whom would Orodeth blame?”

 

“You wouldn’t dare!” he exclaimed in righteous fury, his features drawn pale in fear. “You shall not touch Finduilas, wretch!”

“Reforge my sword and we shall discuss the matter further,” I promised him.

He glared at me before saying darkly, “Bring your damned blade to my forge.”

It was done. 

The process of reforging drained his energy to the core. Even I who knew nothing of forging felt the bitter malice contained within the blade. Pity flared, unbidden, into his dark eyes as he discerned the tale of the one wrongly killed by the sword. Black the blade emerged from the fire, blacker than charcoal. Who had crafted it? It was not of Noldorin make, nor was it of Dwarven make, though elements of both were contained in it. 

“The lode metal used reminds me of shooting stars and of Eöl, the Dark Elf of Elmoth. I had seen Lomion’s sword during Nírnaeth Arnodiead. This blade speaks of the same make,” he was murmuring to himself.

“Black sword,” he said finally. “Mormegil, you shall be called.”

“You know my tale!” I exclaimed.

“I know the sword’s tale,” he corrected me absently. “But fear not, Agarwaen. Grandfather taught me to keep the secrets of the blades I touch. I remain true to his legacy.”

“You will tell none?” I asked urgently.

He looked at me in great indignation at being prompted for words of assurance again. Then he said simply, “I am true to my blood.”

And the unvoiced words lingered between us. “I am true to my blood even as you are not.”

My hand came to grasp the hilt and he surrendered the sword without reluctance, looking as if he had never been gladder to be rid of a blade in his life. 

“It does not bode well for me, does it?” I asked quietly.

“It does not bode well for the one who shall wield it,” he replied noncommittally, though his features remained uneasy as he cast the blade one last glance before I sheathed it. 

“Well answered, Prince. Now how may I thank you?”

“You needn’t thank me. Bring no harm upon the princess and what she loves.”

“But I have been imagining many pleasant ways to thank you, dear lord.” 

My voice had dropped to an intimate murmur and when my hands came to his waist, I half-expected him to punch me. I had not expected him to call out for the guards. He was a law-abiding man, I discovered to my chagrin. But the thrill of having watched him at work still soared through my veins. Watching him craft had been more intimate than watching him bath. I would not fritter away this chance. Let the guards come. For once my luck held, and the guards did not come.

“Don’t!” I commanded, before taking his lips in a brutal kiss. I termed it a kiss because our lips were in contact; but in actuality it was no kiss – it was as being seared by the flames of the forge he worked in – purifying, reforging and melting. I continued plundering his mouth with abandon and I suspect he had the breath knocked out of him as I pushed him down to the floor. My nerves were overwrought by panic and desperation, registering not even a single action of his, for so wiped out was my mind by the feel of his heated skin through his clothes. I succumbed to it, fumbling my fingers into my breeches and stroking coarsely, biting all the while upon his lips, his throat and his jaw, until I came with a snarl.

His dark eyes were watching me warily and in them I saw steeled resolution. But I made no move to steer the activity down that path, instead choosing to put my clothes to rights and staring wearily at the cave floor. 

There had been men and women in the past. Saeros, Beleg, Aerín, daughters of the men I had fought with, soldiers who had fought under me, nobles like Gwindor whom I had seduced for my needs, naive women like Finduilas, enemies I had been forced to negotiate with – but there had never been anyone like Celebrimbor. Looking at him sent my blood soaring to the loins and watching him drown himself in work made me oddly disposed to keep an eye on him for the man did not pay a care to the rest of the world when he worked.

“You are a very handsome man,” I said finally, in a low, pained voice.

“But I am not the man who loved you,” he replied and I flinched, bringing my fingers to touch the blade that had caused the death of the one who had been condemned to love my cursed soul. “You forced your advantage, Agarwaen. My relationship with the King withstanding, do you think that the nobility of Nargothrond would be lenient on the young hunter who assaulted one of the High-Princes of the Noldor?”

“I did not love him. He loved me.” 

Beleg Cùthalion had loved me deeply, as I had never deserved to be loved. I had used him for my ends and tried to pretend that I returned his regard. Had the pretence been enough? I remembered the horror and regret in his eyes when I had stabbed him in my delirium. He had regretted loving me, as had everyone else. I should be glad that Celebrimbor had not fallen prey to my cursed charm. But I was not glad. I felt bereaved.

I bent to kiss his brow chastely, a gesture that seemed at odds with the rest of my life. I sighed and decided that I might as well as get it all over with. I was no good at this sort of thing.

Respect was a poor substitute for the actual emotion I was afflicted with. But it would have to do. I was who I was and the word could not pass my lips for I had carelessly bandied it about with anyone and everyone I needed something from.

“I respect you,” I declared unsteadily before hurrying on with rising desperation. “I have slept with men and women for gaining my ends. I still shall because I have no other means. But for what it matters, I have never respected anyone enough to think of hearts and eyes. Until now, that is.” 

I broke off and stared into his eyes, strangely clinging to the idea that they held answers to all my fears and needs. Then I gulped realising my folly and rose to my feet, before bending to pull the dazed smith up. I had made enough mistakes for the day.

“Eyes?” he asked numbly.

“I don’t remember the eyes of anyone I have slept with.” I shrugged. It was the most obvious answer in the entire world.

He braced himself against the wall and glared at me. 

I decided to take a gaming chance. It was all over for the better or worse now. What was ever lost by asking?

“Can you come to respect me?” 

His glare became fiercer. I did not want him to respect me. I wanted him to understand that ‘respect’ was a word I used in lieu of another. 

Then he said crisply, “If you are under the impression that I am about to confess my heart to you merely because you have fed me a string of lies, you are mistaken.”

This was the unfortunate result of having the reputation of being a blackguard and a liar. Even when I spoke the truth, it failed to shine as truth ought to shine. I was better off living my lies. But I had taken the plunge and it was not in me to give up.

“You can have anything you ask for. I will not harm Finduilas for your sake. But I need your – your respect, shall we say?”

“Agarwaen, your game does not please me. It unsettles me, in fact. What do you want of me? Another bloodstained sword that needs to be remade?”

His eyes were holding frank anger and bewilderment. Nothing of what I had said had convinced him of my sincerity. It was time for drastic measures. What usually required planning and rehearsals came to me as naturally as breathing this time.

“Yes.” Then I brought my right hand to my heart, raw pleading and demand warring in my voice as I confessed. “But that sword is a living one.”

 

In retrospect, it was no surprise that my proclamation saw me thrown out of his forge. He was a strong man, though he preferred to save his strength for need. I suppose my eviction from his presence had been cause worth enough to merit the application of his physical strength. He certainly had not looked regretful when I had ended upon my rear most disgracefully in the corridor. 

I occupied my time with warriors, decadent orgies and the planning of the coup. I became mighty among the people of Nargothrond and the sword Celebrimbor had reforged brought me trophies and victories unparalleled during the time. But I had no liking for the Elven manner of warfare, of ambush and stealth and secret arrow, and I yearned for brave strokes and battle in the open. My counsels weighed with the King more and more after each victory placed at his feet. In those days the Elves of Nargothrond forsook their secrecy and went openly to battle, and great store of weapons were made.

There was an inquisition in the court following the uproar that resulted when the tidings of Finduilas’s pregnancy became known. Celebrimbor was found guilty and thrown into the dungeons of Nargothrond. He accepted his sentence calmly and did not attempt a defence at all.

As I had said earlier, he was a law-abiding man.

Then I was spending a late night with Gwindor when he mentioned that Orodeth had had confiscated Celebrimbor’s correspondence before it could leave Nargothrond. 

“Who are his correspondents?” I asked curiously. “His father?”

“No, they don’t write to him. But Lady Galadriel is his aunt and they are regular correspondents. She harbours a strong sisterly affection for him, I have heard say.”

“He might be saved from imprisonment if he were to plead his cause to her,” I remarked.

“He had. The letter to Galadriel had him stating that he needed her counsel regarding matters that concerned his attachment to Finduilas. But she has not received his plea and I suppose it is his fate to rot in the dungeons until the child is born. Then he will be exiled with the bastard child.”

“Why didn’t he offer marriage to the princess?”

“His father would have him slain if he dares marry the daughter of Orodeth. And Orodeth would treat him no better. There is bad blood between them.”

“Ah, where folly leads man!” 

Gwindor laughed at my philosophical lament before saying mischievously, “As long as folly leads you to man, you shall not meet Celebrimbor’s fate.”

True. Celebrimbor would have done better to keep his dalliances confined to men. I could not help a scowl. As the pregnancy of Finduilas became glaringly obvious, I often found time to brood upon how deeply I loathed her.

 

I advocated open battle and assault, since I knew it was the only way to end the defilement of Beleriand. Under Mormegil – The Black Sword – renown and victory came to Orodeth and we wrested the lands west of Sirion from Morgoth.

One of the greater concerns was the slow supply line of arms. I asked Orodeth to build a great bridge across the River to facilitate faster convoys of weapons and men. Gwindor had his misgivings, saying that the strength of Nargothrond lay in secrecy and that the bridge would reveal our location to Morgoth. But I prevailed, arguing that the Enemy feared a nation that had brave hearts and strong arms to wield the sword and the axe.

I feared that the bridge across the river was poorly planned and constructed. We were bereft of Celebrimbor’s wisdom. Orodeth had forbidden me to seek his kinsman’s expertise. Inglor had been the architect of the bridge. As wise as he was, he was not Celebrimbor.

Ill at ease with Inglor’s design of the bridge, I made my way to the dungeons and sought Celebrimbor. He was pacing the floor, his brows drawn together in deep thought. When he saw me, he glared before returning his attention to the stones he paced.

“You cannot have broken the blade again,” he stated flatly. 

“No, I doubt that anything you forge can be broken.” I bade the guards to leave and came to stand before him, blocking his pacing. 

Close to, I could see the black circles about his eyes and the crinkles on his forehead. His pallor was unhealthy and there was a pinched look about him that spoke of less than hygienic conditions.

“You should get out of here,” I said. “Just marry the woman and take her to your land.”

“It is a matter of principle,” he said coldly. “Orodeth will not allow me to marry his daughter.”

“You cannot rot away in this dungeon!”

“On the contrary, I am currently doing so,” he retorted.

“I want you to come and inspect a bridge we have built.” I came to the point without prevarication. For once I had no will to provoke him. He looked well and truly miserable. 

“Is it an order?” he asked sarcastically, his eyes flashing disdain. 

I felt the familiar heat rise in me as I watched the anger dance in his eyes. With effort, I quelled that line of thought and muttered, “I could make it one. When I take you to the bridge at night, you can see the stars. That is a fair bargain.”

“I don’t know who fed you this nonsense about Elves and the stars.” He snorted in exasperation. “I have had enough of the stars from my days crossing the Ice.”

“I am going to Orodeth,” I told him.

“I shall come. It would give me a chance at escape,” he remarked absently. 

“You have no chance at escape.” I stepped close so that our chests were flush against each other. “You shall be under the guard of The Black Sword of Nargothrond.”

 

“Too wide,” he said sharply. “And too strong. You are fools.” 

“How gracious of you. Your wisdom is so unparalleled that it landed you in the dungeons.”

“I am serious.” He tapped the edge of a stone. “You cannot burn down the bridge at need. You cannot defend the length of it in a siege. This is one of the most singularly ill-thought of strategies I have seen, and I have seen enough folly in my family.”

“This outstrips even your uncle’s famous parley mishap?” I demanded sardonically. 

He continued inspecting the stones and the span before murmuring, “My uncle is a man grossly misunderstood. When I speak of folly, I speak of my grandfather’s impatient decisions and of his brother’s ill-fated combat with Morgoth.”

“Why did you stay behind in Nargothrond?” I asked what I had always wanted to ask him. “Was it for Finduilas?”

“Yes.” 

He looked up at the stars and inhaled the cold free air that had been denied him for months. I felt pity and sadness. He deserved better. I knew what I deserved and would meet fate boldly when the time came. But he did not have a bone of malice in his body and he deserved better at the hands of destiny.

“It is not very bad, I tell myself.” He turned to face me, frankness writ as ever on his handsome features. “Findaráto died in Tol Sirion for Beren’s cause. Maitimo fared worse in Angband and lived to tell the tale. I am in perfectly habitable dungeons, with Elves as guardsmen and suffer no ill-treatment at their hands.”

“But it goes ill with you.”

“Yes,” he admitted. “I miss my work, the feel of metal under my fingers, the heat of the forge and the sweat of my toils.”

I strove to lighten his temper saying, “We can enact a passable scenario of all those if you chose to indulge in an activity that has just suggested itself to my imagination.”

“Do you consider me a conquest yet to be claimed?” he grinned. “Come now, Agarwaen. What purpose shall bedding me serve you now?”

“Did you listen to naught I spoke that day?” I demanded, regarding the starlight flecked black of his eyes. 

“Who was he?” he asked me instead, choosing to stare pointedly at the sword that had given me its name.

“Beleg Cùthalion, wise and true,” I said simply. “He loved me. I used him as I used many others I know, as I continue to use many here. He loved me and regretted it at the end.” 

“I found myself wondering what he had seen in you,” he said in a quiet, thoughtful tone that twisted my heart. He had seen nothing worthy in me then. It had probably afforded him amusement to think of what Beleg might have loved in me.

“I am good looking,” I suggested bleakly. “I fight well.” There was my might and my charm. That was all there was. 

He hummed absently, withdrawing into his thoughts.

“Ask, and if you are not given, take.”

“I beg your pardon?” he met my gaze in confusion.

“That is how I have lived all my life. You see, I had no other choice.” I willed him to understand as I had never willed anyone else to understand. “I had to do what I have done. It was to survive. I was handsome in my childhood. They asked and then they took. It is the same that I do now. Anything to survive, Celebrimbor, anything to survive. We cannot all be chivalrous fools like you.”

His eyes were wide in horrified shock at my words. He opened his mouth, and closed it. Then he opened it again. 

The condemnation I waited for did not come rushing in a fiery verbal torrent. Instead, he took a deep breath and spoke calmly the words that were my fall.

“You had best call me Telpë.”

 

The first time he kissed me, the land fell away beneath my feet. It was true, for I lost my footing and stumbled into him, armour and all. He caught me, his calloused palms gripping my face so gently and firmly before leading me into a dance of lips. 

He was a deucedly patient man, I discovered. My groans, curses and harsh injunctions had no bearing on him as he contentedly mapped my face with chaste kisses, occasionally coming to appease my impatience with a lingering sensual dance of tongues that left me breathless. 

Finally, when I had despaired of him, he drew back and whispered harshly, “I take it that you will not report your prisoner’s misbehaviour to the King?”

“Damn the King!” I brought his hands to the links of my armour. “You had better get me out of this before I do it myself!”

He endeavoured to shut me up through another of those breathtakingly wondrous kisses that seemed to last an eternity each. Before I knew, he had prised my mail away and was letting his fingers trail over my spine.

“If you do not take me now, I will suck your cock until you come with a scream that Morgoth himself will hear,” I promised him fervently.

His eyes widened once more, this time in vague disapproving horror at my crudeness, before he chuckled and kissed me again to prevent more escaping my lips. 

“You wretched man,” I began, panting, and he decided to explore the underside of my jaw with his customary absolute concentration. 

He bit down on my neck, and his fingers drove in down my spine, insinuating themselves into my breeches to reach the flesh unshielded by skin in the cleaving of my buttocks. When unkempt nails flicked their way over my perineum, it proved too much for my frayed nerve endings and I may have screamed loud enough to wake up the Gods, assuming that the Gods sleep during the night.

* * *

I had taken part in many nefarious activities in the course of my eventful life. So stealing away during the dead of the night to the dungeons with the sole intention of performing unspeakably intimate acts upon Orodeth’s prisoner was not the most grievous sin I had committed. In fact, compared to the other things I had done, this was a distinct improvement. 

However, indulging in passionate frolics with a handsome young man went against Celebrimbor’s – no, Telpë he was to me now - Telpë’s morals. 

“Someone will see!” he would hiss angrily as I entered the dungeon.

Even if he had forbidden me to come, I would have risked it. He was deteriorating steadily and I feared for his health. Finduilas and Inglor had pleaded to Orodeth on behalf of their kinsman. But the King remained immovable. Then Inglor had been called away to the borders in my lieu; I had refused to lead the men this winter because of my inexplicable whim to explore the dungeons of Nargothrond. Finduilas had been confined to her quarters as the pregnancy neared the term.

I was the only visitor Telpë had. The others did not dare go against the King’s orders. Orodeth allowed me to do as I wished because he feared me, and with good reason.

So one night, after attending to the usual arrangement with Gwindor, I made my way to the dungeons. I had barely crossed the kitchen wing when trumpets sounded the low notes of death and wailing began. I rushed to the courtyard, as did everyone else, to find Orodeth riding in with his son’s mutilated body borne upon a bier. There was much to be done. Arraying myself in funeral finery, taking command of the guard, accounting for who had returned from that ill-gone fray, sending messengers to the nearest kin of those who had not made it back, speaking to the wounded – before I knew, it was dawn again. 

The funeral was as bleak as any of the funerals I had attended over my life. But there was one difference. Finduilas had foregone dignity and restraint, instead sobbing wretchedly as her father lit the pyre. The sight of her heavily pregnant form broken into half by her sobs stirred even my heart and I went to her and patted her hand unsteadily. Gwindor was there, though. He helped her away. 

Gwindor’s continued allegiance to her made me muse ironically on the many facets of that thing we call love. Then I remembered Telpë. Cursing, I rushed back to the dungeons.

Fate had not spared me the least measure of grace. The dungeons were locked solidly and abandoned by the soldiers who had rushed to the barracks and the courtyard. I resolved to put them all on the frontline at the next skirmish. 

Finding the dungeon master, bribing the keys from him, getting through the many doors and finally reaching the last barrier that separated me from Telpë – I remember it all as a blur. Then I shoved the door open and after that I remember only horror.

They say that Fingon cried upon seeing Maedhros suspended in that devilish manner from the rocks. I cannot attest to that. But I can attest to that I cried, cursed and choked when I saw Telpë unconscious on the stone floor. 

I fell to my knees beside him and drew him into my lap, and stared horrified at my tears falling onto his still visage. Then I bent in double and clutched at his dear face with trembling fingers before kissing him as I had never kissed anyone else. This was not a kiss for gain, or for game. This was for life and for once fate gave in to me. 

Lashes moistened by my tears blinked open to reveal the dark eyes that reminded me of everything I had come to hold dear. They blinked once again, and once more, before his lips quirked. 

“Don’t say anything,” I begged him as I had never begged anyone else in the whole of my wretched life. 

Though yet warring with the lure of unconsciousness, he smiled weakly and dragged his fingers across to my shaking hands. I clasped them as if they were lifelines, and indeed they were.

“Why did you stop breathing?” I demanded angrily. “How dare you?”

“I did not. I simply fainted.” He glared. “It was a suffocating atmosphere, to say the least.”

I did not reply, trying to bring my wildly racing heart to calm. He was safe. I had to get him out of here though.

He shifted ever so slightly in my lap so that his nose was pressed against my penis. When he looked up with a look of mischief before proceeding to lick with purpose along the seam of my leather breeches, I could only curse and draw him upon me roughly for a kiss. This kiss was not for life. This kiss was for purposes considerably more pleasurable. 

But I was haunted by images of his still form. He strove to catch my attention through licks, nips and strategic fondling. For once, I failed to rise to the game. Instead, I was shaking, shaking quite badly. With an overwrought sigh, I glared at him before resting my head upon the curve of his shoulder. There it would stay unless he felt compelled to shove it away. 

He was an unpredictable man.

So his hands came about my trembling form and he arranged us side-by-side upon the cold, damned stone floor. Then his body spooned about me, cocooning my sorely tried heart in the illusion of absolute safety.

 

A woman’s stricken gasp woke me from the most perfect dream. Blearily, I opened my eyes and was presented with an extremely bloated vision of Finduilas standing upside down. She nodded to me and stepped away into the corridor. I did not move, being content where I was. After a lifetime or more, as I sighed contentedly, a languid arm twined over my right hand and held me close against a veritable source of heat. 

“You are a beast,” a sleep-lulled voice remarked.

I resisted the urge to snuggle into the heat he was and said sincerely, “Then let me be your beast.”

“I must make a leash,” he mused.

My loins stirred to life at the suggestion and I hastily turned in his embrace so that I might gain friction and its results. He sighed once before closing his eyes.

“Away with you. The King will be most put out if he misses his sycophant.”

“I don’t sleep with him.” I kissed his eyelids delighting as the long eyelashes tickled my nose. 

“I am glad to know that you have yet one or two people in Nargothrond to seduce,” he chuckled. “You would be bored if there was no more game.”

“There are beasts, and there are keepers.” I rubbed my body against his sleep warmed skin. 

He groaned and his eyes shot open. They were dark and dilated with desire. I smirked as his hands pulled me in for one of those kisses that made my ears tingle. 

“I fail to comprehend why I merit your attention.” He brushed my jaw thoughtfully. “You can bed anyone you want. You are renowned for doing so. What do you see in me?”

“I am not eloquent. But I can say confidently that I have a deep, abiding regard for some of your assets.”

“We have come to regard now, have we?” he asked amusedly, before kissing me again.

I hummed my agreement before saying a trifle breathlessly, “It is a symbiotic regard. My lips have a regard for your cock. My cock bears the same regard for your lips.”

He made a face at my crude words before pulling down my breeches. I did the same for him and soon I was atop him, grinding my naked lower body against his in unabashed lust. His head was thrown back, exposing his neck that was strewn with my bites and his hands had come to my waist for anchoring themselves. 

“Have your way with me before I count to ten, or I shall have mine with you,” I swore. 

His eyes flashed in resolution before he sat up. 

“How?” I asked, feeling suddenly nervous. 

Then I grinned. I had thrown my legs about countless waists for reaching my ends. I had enthusiastically plundered many orifices for the same purpose. Doubtless, I was Middle-Earth’s personification of debauchery.

“Is sucking on the itinerary?” he enquired before kissing me again. I had lost count of the kisses, just as I had hoped to. 

“What do you propose to suck?” I demanded in a voice gravelly with need.

“It begins with your fingers,” he declared before drawing my index finger into his mouth. 

By the time he had finished his sucking exploits, I was delirious with angry need. I threw myself upon him and pinned him down before sheathing myself on his manhood with a heartfelt sigh of relief. 

Then he bucked, angling himself ever so calculatingly, and I yelled as my prostrate was nudged. It was all furious madness after that. I rode faster and faster until my thighs ached and threatened to give up. His hands had come to grip mine within their hold. As much as I drove myself to the cusp of abyss, I could not reach there. Wretched tears of frustration threatened to give me away and I fell atop his chest panting and heaving.

“Just finish it,” I begged him.

“You could have asked earlier,” he said breathlessly. 

I groaned. But thankfully, he took charge after that, rolling us over and driving into me with his characteristic skill at anything he cared to do. His fingers came to wrap themselves into a snug sheath about my manhood and I babbled incoherently for relief. 

When the relief came, it came with an all-shattering crescendo that I failed to escape with consciousness intact. I came to in his arms, and decided that I would remain there until there was the threat of the roof caving in. 

“They would never believe me if I told them that Mormegil purrs like a cat.”

“They would never believe me if I was to say that Celebrimbor Curufinwion suck---”

I was interrupted by a kiss and then instructed firmly, “Let us keep it a secret then.”

 

 

“My lord.”

It was Finduilas. I smiled and walked over to help her onto the couch. They were expecting childbirth next week.

“I had not known that you had lured Telpë into your bed.” Her blue eyes were cold and promised repercussions.

Then the insane, little cloud of happiness that had been floating about my head popped away and I remembered why Telpë was in the dungeon. 

“I--”

“I was not his lover. The child I bear is not his.”

“What?” I sat down beside her.

“He took up the blame to protect a mutual friend.” Her eyes lost their coldness and her composure faltered. Then she bit down on her lips and asked, “What dastardly game are you trying to snare him in?”

“Nothing.” Then I realised how unbelievable it would have sounded. I modified my words, “I have a deep respect for” - for his suction skills, for his glorious kisses, for his detailed knowledge of my body, for his suggestion of taming the beast I was - but one cannot tell a lady all that – so, instead I said, “for his wisdom and brilliance.” And there was the matter of him being the supreme pivot of my existence. But that too remained among the list of things one cannot tell a lady.

“I am his friend,” she said quietly. “If I contrive to arrange an escape for him, will you aid me as you can?”

Escape. I could not let him go. I thought of Mother. I thought of Lalaith, lost ever to me. I thought of Father, who was enduring Morgoth’s hatred. I thought of Nienor, who I fain remembered. 

“I will not let him go,” I said quietly. “I will meet the King and ask pardon on his behalf. Orodeth will not deny me anything. But Telpë remains, here, with me.”

“And what will you do when the Enemy attacks Nargothrond? Perchance, you may keep him safe. But can you save him forever? He is not mortal, Agarwaen. Gwindor once told me that mortal and immortal cannot wed, not unless they are brought together by higher doom. Will you wed him to your doom?”

“He is mine and I will not let him go.” I stormed away in fury, galled that she would even suggest such a course.

Then I went to the dungeon that night and saw him chafing at imprisonment. He put on a good act for my sake, greeting me warmly and partaking with me enthusiastically in those activities that marked our moments together. But I was not deceived.

“What will you do after the child is born?” I asked him that night.

He shifted restlessly in our embrace before beginning to pick his thoughts aloud. “My father would accept the child though he shall be undoubtedly angry with me. I will travel to him.”

I nodded and toyed with strands of his hair that had become plastered to his chest.

“You will come with me?” he asked quietly, drawing up my chin so that our gazes met. “My father and his brothers need warriors. They would be proud to take you into their ranks.”

“I have much to keep me in Beleriand. But I am touched that you asked.”

I was not touched. I was heartbroken, if one can ever associate the condition with me. He seemed to understand and said no more upon the subject.

“Orodeth may not let you leave. Even if he did, how will you get past the Enemy and reach Ossiriand?”

“I had sent a letter to my aunt. She would arrange something. She is one of the most resourceful women I have known.” He seemed so naively confident of this that I could not resist kissing him.

“What?” he asked, disgruntled.

“That letter of yours reached the fire in Orodeth’s chambers.”

“A waste of parchment and ink,” he said, bravely attempting to hide his downright fear at my revelation.

“Indeed.” I met his gaze steadily. “But the one who wields the sword you reluctantly reforged shall ensure that you reach your father’s lands.”

“Is that a declaration, a joke or a boast?” 

“Take it as an oath.”

Oath indeed it was. It was the least I could do for one who had given me more than I had ever dared hope.

 

 

Finduilas gave birth to a son. When she rose from the birthing bed, I sent her a terse message conveying my well wishes for mother and child. And I added a line indicating that I was at her service in the matter we had discussed a week or so ago.

 

 

“They will send a convoy to the shore of Ivrin,” Finduilas told me. “On the new moon day of this month. I will make Father relent and advance the exile. You can escort him there with time to spare.”

I arranged for my second to take command in Nargothrond. The morale of the soldiers had been low ever since the fall of Inglor and his closest comrades. We were no longer invulnerable. Morgoth had marked us.

“How will I know them?” I asked Finduilas the night before our departure.

“Telpë will know them.”

She had agreed to let the child go with Telpë. It was the King’s edict. I wondered if Telpë’s father would kill the child if he knew the truth. That Elves did not commit infanticide was as true as the belief that Elves faded when they did not see the sun and the stars. Fables – would what Telpë and I had shared be nothing more than a fable one day?

Did it matter?

 

 

“I think it will be Maitimo.” Telpë was saying thoughtfully as we led our horses down a steep ravine. 

We could have taken an easier path. But Finduilas had warned me against it, for her heart spoke of fears and foreboding. There was the safety of a child at stake. And there was Telpë’s safety at stake. I had concurred with her and led us through a goat path in the cragged hilly outcrop that bordered a tributary of Narog.

I adjusted the saddlebag which held the peacefully sleeping child and turned back to look at him. The sun was going down behind him. He was an otherworldly creature of light and flame and I could not help a sigh.

“Are you listening to anything I am saying?” he demanded.

“Yes, you were speculating on who would lead the convoy,” I supplied. I would have considered myself spectacularly fortunate if my only task in life was to listen to him, and to listen to him evermore.

“I wish Father came. He would like you. And Tyelko. Tyelko likes hunters.”

“But I am a beast. He hunts beasts.”

“He shall not hunt you because you are with me.” 

“Is it too depraved to ask for a kiss before a child?”

“The child is sleeping,” he pointed out helpfully, before coming over to indulge me with a warm, perfect press of his lips upon mine. 

“So who shall come?” I asked as we made camp by the Ivrin that night.

“Maitimo.”

“The dead High-King’s so-and-so?” I scrunched my nose. The rumours were incredibly lurid, even going by the standards of their family.

“The dead High-King’s cousin.” Telpë glared at me. “You will like him, or you may not. Macalaurë says that it is like foot rot.”

“I beg your pardon?” 

“You will not like Maitimo. Then one day you find that you like him. So Macalaurë says that he is like foot rot. Contagious and gradual.”

“Macalaurë is the bard.” I smiled at him. “I remember that you are wary of him. He will not come?”

“He will not stir himself from a place even if the place is being burned down. His wife had to have him dragged away when his lands were attacked by the dragon.”

The dragon. A strange cold that had nothing to do with the night air crept through my veins. But Telpë continued chattering away, “Macalaurë would not get along well with you. He likes honesty, you see. And you are a compulsive liar.”

“I have never lied to you.”

“But you have never told me the truth.”

“There is a subtle difference, my dear Telpë.”

The child woke up and Telpë went silent as I picked up the infant and lulled it back to sleep. 

“You are talented,” he remarked softly.

“I had a sister.” I clenched my jaw and dug out the courage from my very core to continue. “Lalaith, she was named. Laughter. Then came a great pestilence from Angband and she did not laugh again. I did all that I could. I prayed, I wept, I rent my robes. But she was taken.”

He walked over and gently pressed his hand upon my shoulder. Then I confessed. I had to.

“Túrin.”

He knelt by my side and fingered a lock of my hair that had fallen onto my forehead before saying, “I knew. The secrets the blade tells the smith remain secrets.”

I had not known that it was possible to feel for another being what I felt for Telpë then. It was divine, frightening and blessedly right.

The starlight flecked his dark irises with silver. 

“Telpë!” 

A voice remarkable for its broken melody hailed aloud. 

“I am here!” Telpë rose from his position and threw more faggots onto the banked fire we had made. 

Beside the waters of Ivrin Gwindor had called me to this new life. Now beside the same waters, I would bid farewell to this epoch. 

Faces appeared. Gaunt, proud Elves who had fought upon the Eastern Marches of Himring. They were led by the one orcs fearfully referred to as The White Devil.

“My dearest Telpë!” 

“Am I glad to see you sane!” Telpë laughed and flung himself into the one-armed embrace offered by his uncle.

“Ever sane, if only to make you glad,” Maedhros Feanorion remarked affectionately.

“Oh, Maitimo, this is my companion. Come, Túrin,” Telpë beckoned to me. I was still dazed by the ease with which my name had rolled off his tongue. He had known. He had known from the beginning. Then he had loved me knowing all that I was. 

“Come,” he dragged me. “This is my uncle.”

“Prince Maedhros.” I nodded curtly.

“The Black Sword of Nargothrond.” Maedhros assessed me thoughtfully. “I am indebted to you for your escort of my nephew.”

“It was my duty.”

“And your pleasure,” Telpë interjected. He had transformed, I noticed. Where he had been a wary noble who preferred to keep his thoughts to himself, he now was a carefree soul revelling in his kinsman’s presence.

“That is how it is,” Maedhros smiled at me, his eyes twinkling in understanding. 

“I am afraid so,” I owned up.

“You will tell him to come with us, Maitimo?” 

Telpë interceded for me yet again and I wanted to fall at his feet and kiss his toes one by one. He knew what doom I lay under and yet, he asked for my presence.

“We have all our places to stand,” Maedhros said quietly.

“Must you torture me with your meandering words scarce instants after we are reunited?” Telpë glared at him, though the glare was belied by the affection contained within.

“I have a healer with me, Telpë. Let him see to you. I insist. We travel hard over difficult terrain and I cannot have you half-hale.”

For half a moment, I wished that I had a kinsman who would order me about. But I was what I was and having another who cared about me would be another under the doom I bore. 

“I have met many remarkable men in my life, Lord Túrin. And now I have met you.” 

“Does that mean I am remarkable, Prince?” I asked him curiously. His eyes were the strangest hue of grey, greyer than the rainclouds that had washed the skies of Dor-lomin before the great pestilence.

“Not everyone can have survived what you endured, milord.” He offered me a nod of respect.

“They say that you endured,” I remarked.

“Perhaps.” He smiled. “But it was long ago. One day, they will sing lays about the Black Sword of Nargothrond and how he swept away the might of Morgoth from the west of Sirion.” 

“They might call me a blackguard,” I said dubiously. “Or a cursed fool.”

“Well, I have been called worse. Words do no harm to hearts as long as they are not spoken by those you love.”

“And what if they are spoken by those who love you?” 

“Then we continue, because we have to.” His gaze skewered me. “Yet you shall endure, Túrin.”

“The Gods have been callous to my family,” I said quietly. “My father’s plight is unspeakable. My mother and sister, I have not been able to find. Now Telpë leaves. And Nargothrond may fall.”

“Nargothrond shall fall.” He shrugged. “It is as it ought to be. All that we love burn and fall. Indeed,” his eyes flickered to where Telpë stood with the healer, “I fear that you may have done better to not do this.”

“What mean you?” I demanded harshly, stricken by the gloomy foreboding in his tone.

“He creates, as my father created. My nephew is naive, as my father was. He will be tricked, as my father was. Will he fall, as my father did?”

“I care not. He is safe, for now. I will die knowing that I did not bring my doom upon him.”

Then I asked him, because I had to know. I had sought answers all my life. “How do you please the Gods?”

He cast me an amused glance before turning his regard to the child I held. Then he murmured, “You can please the Gods with fool’s gold.”

“What?”

“They are easily pleased by fools and their prayers, my lord. But great men earn the ire of the Gods, and the houses of great men are burned by the wrath of the powers.”

“So there is nothing to be done?” I asked, feeling morose all of a sudden, despite the fact that Telpë was winking at me.

“On the contrary. You can hoodwink them.” His gaze turned introspective. “But I advise you against such an exercise.” 

“What then?”

“Give me the child.” He gently scooped into his arm the sleeping infant. “Name him, if you will, Lord Túrin.”

The stars shone down upon the child’s serene features. I saw Finduilas in him, her pure beauty had he inherited. 

“Gildor – noble star.”

“Gildor Inglorion, then he shall be.” Maedhros bent to kiss a soft cheek. 

“Inglorion?” I asked, aghast.

“The son of Inglor, is he not?”

I remembered Inglor’s horror when he had broached the subject of killing the unborn child in womb. I remembered Finduilas’s grief when he had been killed. I remembered Telpë’s resolution to accept Orodeth’s judgement instead of giving away the identity of the child’s father.

“You discovered my secret!” Telpë exclaimed as he heard Maitimo’s words. “Túrin, this is why I said that he is like foot rot.”

“Foot rot?” Maedhros crinkled his brows. 

“Macalaurë says so.”

“Then it must be right,” Maedhros conceded before walking away with the child. “I can spare you until the moon reaches the crest of yonder peak. Use the time. Well met, Túrin of Dor-lòmin!”

“Well met, Maedhros Fëanorion,” I replied quietly.

 

“Did you like him?” Telpë enquired. “I wager that you did not.”

“On the contrary, I find him fascinating.” Telpë grinned knowingly. I caved in saying, “Well, it is hard to like a doomsayer.”

“Never mind him.” He pulled me for a kiss. “He has been scaring us all long before we were even exiled. One gets used to his brand of philosophy eventually. Foot rot, remember?”

I reminded him quietly, “We kissed under the stars long ago.”

“Was it very long ago?” he frowned, and an endearing, deep crease formed betwixt his brows.

“It was many kisses ago,” I rectified. 

“We hoped to lose count.” Telpë reminded me. Then I embraced him, inhaling in the rich, familiar scent of him that would remain imprinted in my mind ever. 

“So we did,” I whispered. 

Starlight washed us cold white as the moon fickly hid behind a wispy trail of clouds. Then I looked into his eyes, and saw the dark irises flecked by star silver. 

“Look at you,” he murmured. “Hallowed by the stars.”

“Hallowed?” I asked dubiously. That was not a word which could be used along with my name.

“I insist upon it.” He embraced me once again before removing a simple pendant from his neck and placing it about mine. “My grandfather made it for me long ago. Take it as a memory of our sucking.”

“And licking. But sucking takes prominence, of course.” 

The moon had made its cursed way to the crest of the hill. It was time. I realised suddenly that I had told him nothing. I had not confided in him about the least portion of his importance to me. I had not told him why I had become what I was.

Then his hand came to the hilt of my sword and he whispered, “The smith knows the secrets.”

I turned abruptly and walked to my horse. He must not have moved, for I did not hear his boots striding away. Then I mounted my stallion and spurred onwards, galloping away from the clear waters of the Ivrin where underneath the stars stood a man I loved. 

Yes, love – the word I had never dared associate with what we had in the fear that I would lose it all. Now that I had lost it, I could use the word.

Since I had lost it and since he remained safe, away from my doom, I knew that we had shared had been hallowed indeed. For the Gods would not allow Túrin to revel in what was hallowed. And they had taken him from me.

* * *


End file.
